"Nancy, don't!"
"What, dear?"
"That tone! I will not have it. The name—the name I give you means what it did when we first loved. No, it means more—more. You shall not slight it."
She was weakened again by his tenderness. "No, dear, no; but I'm so lonely, and you go away to—to other women. I'm not really jealous—of course I'm not—and I know they are ordinary people enough, but you give them names that put them far above me. Ceres first, and now Cassandra. It sounds—oh, don't you understand? How would you like it if I went wandering about with—with mythological characters?" She laughed feebly, but he gave no answering smile.
"I will never go there again," he said, and on his face there was the blank surprise of one robbed by a friend. She saw it, and all day shame for herself and pity for him strove with her jealousy, until at night she went quiveringly to him where he sat in his little study upstairs, and begged him to take back his words.
"I do trust you," she said, "but I'm foolish and very much alone, and—and sometimes I don't feel well, and then, you know—Ned, promise you'll go there when you want to. Promise me."
"I have never wanted to do anything but make you happy."
"I know—I know. Ned, can you forgive me? I am ashamed. You have all the work and worry, and I have grudged you this. But it's because I love you. Promise me."
He kissed her solemnly. "I promise I will try to forget all but the real you, Nancy."
"That means you'll go?"